


baby, won't you stay awhile?

by wishie



Series: say it, just say it [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Gay Male Character, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:22:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishie/pseuds/wishie
Summary: Bill can’t pinpoint the moment he realized he had a massive crush on Stan—he thinks it was sometime between his freshman year and his sophomore year. He thinks Stan may have been cuddling with him. Stan’d breathed out against his face, a warm puff of slightly minty air, and Bill had looked at Stan’s closed eyes and felt his stomach swoop.





	baby, won't you stay awhile?

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to @killproof and @mothpatrol, both for your support and for the feedback. couldn't have done this without you. much love.
> 
> never thought i was gonna finish this fic but here it is, enjoy

“Out with it, Denbrough,” Stan says, reclining on Bill’s bed as if it’s his.

“There’s nothing to b-be  _ out _ about,” Bill says. Stan sits up and fixes him with a skeptical look, raising an eyebrow and scrunching his lips a little. The effect is more comical than anything else and Bill has to fight not to smile.

“I mean it,” Bill says. “There’s nothing.”

Stan searches his face. Bill knows Stan knows that he’s lying. Still, there’s never been anything gained from pushing Bill Denbrough for anything, and Stan knows this, too.

“Fine,” Stan says. “Pass that, would you?” He nods to Bill’s nightstand, where a bottle of whiskey sits waiting. 

Bill opens it himself and takes a long drink, ignoring the way his eyes sting. “There m-m-might b-be something.”

Stan doesn’t say  _ I knew it _ , but holds out a hand for the whiskey. “You’ll tell me eventually, right?”

“Right,” Bill says. “E-Event-t-tually.” 

Stan hums, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Bill watches the movement, his stomach tightening. “Well, I’m open anytime,” he says, lifting up the bottle like he’s toasting Bill. 

“I’ll k-keep that in m-mind,” Bill says, his throat burning from the whiskey. (He thinks it’s the whiskey.)

“Ghostbusters?” Stan asks.

“Again?” Bill asks. “We watched it last w-week.”

“What else do you suggest we do?” Stan says, stretching out on the bed.

“I d-don’t know,” he says, trying very hard not to look at Stan.

He fails. 

Stan looks so  _ natural _ on his bed, stretched out amongst the pillows. His fingers are interlaced behind his head, one leg kicked out on top of the other, long and lean. He looks up just in time to catch Bill staring. Bill looks away.

“Let’s go to the B-Barrens,” he suggests.

“And do what?” Stan asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“I d-d-dunno,” Bill says. “It’s better than s-sitting around in my room d-doing nothing.”

 

They bike down to the Barrens and lie under a tree, almost on top of each other. He can see when Stan breathes, in and out and in and—

“What classes are you taking next year?” Stan asks.

“S-Same as you, I th-thought,” Bill says. Stan shrugs, the movement jostling Bill’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stan’s hair, stirring from the breeze, sunlight falling on it in uneven patches and lighting it up with an angelic glow that he just can’t tear his eyes from. It’s the gayest observation he’s ever made, and he has to fight not to squirm. 

“You’re taking astronomy,” Stan says.

“If you know my sch-schedule so w-w-well, why’d you ask?”

“Thought it might have changed,” Stan says. Bill can’t tell, but he thinks Stan might be smiling. “Since you can never seem to make up your mind about anything.”

“Y-You’re the one who c-c-calls me the lead-d-der,” Bill says. 

“Because the alternative is  _ Richie _ ,” Stan says. Bill shrugs, feels Stan shift. “Stop moving.”

“S-Sorry,” Bill says, and Stan doesn’t say anything else. Bill feels the weight on his arm get heavier, and he thinks Stan might have fallen asleep. He smells like soap and candlelight, or what candlelight would smell like if it had a smell. Light personified. 

“When do you have to be home?” Stan murmurs, sounding sleepy.

“Not unt-t-til l-later,” Bill says, nearly muted. Stan snuggles a little closer and falls asleep; he must, because his breathing evens out, and Bill is left with Stan’s weight on top of him. 

It’s nice. He doesn’t wake him up. 

 

Bill can’t pinpoint the moment he realized he had a massive crush on Stan—he thinks it was sometime between his freshman year and his sophomore year, and he thinks it might have been the first time they’d all smoked, which doesn’t bode well for the feelings or the potential relationship.

He thinks Stan may have been cuddling with him.

He doesn’t think Stan has cuddled with him since. Not like  _ then _ , all legs and hands and giggling. One of his thighs thrust between Stan’s, faces so close noses are touching. Not like that. Stan’d breathed out against his face, a warm puff of slightly minty air, and Bill had looked at Stan’s closed eyes and felt his stomach swoop. 

He’s not sure. He can’t be sure. 

* * *

First thing in the morning, Bill and Stan have physics together, the regular version and not AP. It’s marginally a blow-off class, given that their teacher, when he’s not hungover, can’t be bothered to make his way to class more than three days per week. Today is one of the other two days, and it’s full-scale mayhem, free market capitalism-type anarchy.

Over the steadily rising chaos, Bill can hardly hear himself think, but he asks, “How are y-you d-d-d— _ fuck, _ ” he says, balling his hands into fists. “Doing.”

“I’m alright,” Stan says, watching a spitball as it travels across the room. “Been better. Richie’s being really annoying today.”

“That’s… not g-good,” Bill says, inwardly cursing at himself. 

There’s something between them, a small tinge of awkwardness, but then Stan smiles at him, and Stan’s smile has always been enough to chase anything away.

“Lend me Richie’s French homework?” Stan says. “I have something I want to do to it.”

Bill hands it over and watches as Stan draws dicks over it. They’re surprisingly anatomically correct, given it’s  _ Stan _ , and when he points that out, Stan just shrugs.

“You can’t be  _ me _ and not know how to draw dicks,” he says, grinning. “I’ve been friends with Richie longer than you have.”

Bill’s brow furrows. “W-What does that even—“

“Don’t read too far into it,” Stan advises. Bill watches Stan trace the curve of another dick, in red pen, and tells himself to never get on Stan’s bad side.

 

Richie ends up failing the assignment—he turns it in, dicks and all, beaming, and his French teacher, who’s never liked him, fails him happily. Worth it, Richie says, a little later.

(“Was it really?” Stan asks. 

“To see the look on her face?” Richie snorts, and makes a lewd motion with his hand. “It’s like she’d never seen a dick in her life—although that would make sense.”)

 

“Weren’t you in love with Bev?” Richie whispers one day, while they’re all getting high at the old quarry. He doesn’t know how to whisper, but Bill knows his nosiest friends are too high to be eavesdropping—though, Richie is the nosiest of them all.

“Maybe,” Bill whispers back, actually whispering. “But she’s in love with Ben and I was going through a gay crisis and  _ Stan _ was there and—” he makes a little exploding sound with his mouth. 

“Wow,” Richie says, leaning back. “That’s so…” He chokes up a little. “That’s so fuckin’ cute, man.” Bill shrugs, and his eyes gravitate to Stan, who is curled up into Eddie’s side.

“Who has the joint?” Bill asks.

Bev has it. It gets passed around until it gets to him. “Guys,” he says, in an effort to distract himself from Stan, “You know what we should do?” He directs a meaningful look at Richie, who grins.

“Go swimming?” He asks. “Because we should—ha—we should go swimming.” 

Bill thinks the rest of them keep talking, but he’s too busy directing his evilest glare at Richie, which probably isn’t all that evil, because Richie only laughs. 

Bev jumps in first, with the best dive Bill has ever seen from her. He would clap, he thinks, if his arms weren’t so heavy. Richie turns to survey the group, grinning. “Who’s next?”

“Not me,” Eddie says, immediately and predictably. “Bill, you go.”

“Sure,” Bill says. He runs to the edge and jumps.

He thinks he inhales half the river when he hits the water, and spends ten seconds coughing it all back up.

“Whoa,” he hears Mike say. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Bill says, in between coughs. “All fine.”

He’s mostly composed by the time Stan lands. Stan smiles at him and his heart beats a little faster. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but then Eddie lands in the water.

“He’s alive,” Bev announces. 

“No, shit,” Eddie grumbles, wiping water out of his eyes. 

“We’re chicken fighting,” Mike says. Just then, Richie jumps in, with a massive splash that sends a wave of water over all their heads.

“I call Spaghetti for my team,” Richie says, already seeming to know what’s going on.

“Nope,” Eddie says. “I refuse.”

While they argue in the background, Bill turns to Stan. “Team?”

“Team,” Stan says. “Maybe we’ll finally take down Bev and Ben.”

“They’re fucking undefeated,” Bill says. “Seems unlikely.”

“You’ve never chicken fought with me,” Stan smiles, his teeth glinting. Bill suppresses a grin. 

“If you guys are done flirting,” Stan says, his voice a little louder. “We have a chicken fight to put on.”

“Maybe I’m not done,” Richie challenges, at the same time that Eddie says, “I wasn’t flirting,” and Bill laughs. 

There’s a little disagreement over who’ll go on whose shoulders, but Stan ends up on his shoulders in the end. Bill grips Stan’s thighs, feels them tighten around the back of his neck, and can’t help thinking about how they’d feel wrapped around his waist.

They lose the game.

* * *

“B-B-Birdwatching,” Bill says.

“Birdwatching,” Stan hefts the binoculars, a clear challenge. They stare each other down. A beat passes. Another.

“Fine,” Bill says, snatching the binoculars. “You’re full of shit, Uris.”

“Don’t I know it,” Stan says, looking smugger than he ought to.

“Are we going to see anything interesting?” Bill asks.

“Not really,” Stan admits. “There isn’t a whole lot of variety. We might see a warbler if we’re lucky.”

Bill doesn’t know jack shit about birds, and this must show on his face, because Stan just rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, Denbrough. We’re going casual today.”

“There’s ways to birdwatch that aren’t casual?” Bill wonders, and Stan just shakes his head.

“You’ve got so much to learn.”

“G-Guess you’d b-better teach me th-then,” Bill says, and watches Stan pause and tilt his head. 

“Guess so,” Stan says. 

Stan takes him to a little trail just off of the quarry, tranquil and sweet. They don’t see any birds. An hour goes by, and still nothing as far as he can see.

“I think you’re scaring the birds away,” Stan says, resignedly. “Do you have to walk that loudly?”

“Have I b-been walk-k-king loudly?” Bill asks, lifting a foot. Stan shakes his head.

“It’s okay, I’ll go birdwatching another day,” he says. “Let’s sit over there.”

They sit on a fallen tree and Stan fiddles with the binoculars. His fingers… God. Bill could and does have some thoughts about Stan’s fingers. His eyes track over Stan, from his fingers up his arms, to his neck, his hair, falling to Stan’s lips. Those  _ lips _ . Bill’s had every weird thought in the book about Stan’s lips. 

He’s suddenly very aware that Stan is watching him, and Bill averts his eyes, face reddening.

“You write, don’t you?” Stan asks. There’s nothing in his voice that indicates he knows Bill was eye-fucking him.

“Y-Yeah,” Bill says, shifting on the tree. 

“You write horror, don’t you?” Stan hangs the binoculars from his neck.

“Yeah,” Bill says, a little more confident this time.

“Horror,” Stan mulls that over. “I’ll bet you’re a talented writer.”

Bill blushes a little, in spite of himself. “I’m nothing sp-special.”

“That’s bullshit,” Stan says. “I’ve never read anything you’ve written, but you talk like you’d write well.”

“Don’t know how that figures,” Bill says.

“Someday you’re going to be famous,” Stan says. “You’re going to write the cornerstone of horror novels.” He gets to his feet. “Give them all nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” Bill’s lip quirks up a little. Stan offers him a hand, and he takes it, getting to his feet.

“You’ll give them all nightmares someday,” Stan says, almost absentmindedly, but there’s fire in his eyes when Bill looks at him, and Bill, as always, has to avert his gaze.

* * *

The party is at the old Neibolt house. The music is so loud he can hear it from three blocks away, and Bill, who’s always been a bit of a wallflower, feels at ease.

It’s probably all the tequila he’s been drinking.

He’s there when Eddie, tipsy and giggling, is dragged up to one of the unused rooms by some guy who goes to the rich high school across the way, and he’s there when a slightly more subdued Eddie comes downstairs with Richie, Richie’s arm draped across Eddie’s shoulders. He notices when Eddie has his whole gay freakout, and he waits with the rest of the Losers for Eddie to come clean about it and  _ tell them _ . 

(“…so this year, I decided Secret Santa would be a good idea!” Bev says, beaming.

“…Secret Santa?” Eddie asks. 

“Have you never heard of Secret Santa?” Stan asks. “Even I’ve heard of it, and I’m—“

“—Jewish, we know,” Bill says, swinging his eyes upward to avoid meeting Stan’s eyes. “D-Do you have to wear a Christmas sweater every d-d-day? You d-don’t even celebrate Chr-Christmas.”

“Yes,” Stan says. On his sweater, Rudolph’s nose flashes, as if in agreement.

“Where did you even get that sweater?” Mike asks.

“That’s for me to know and for none of you to find out,” Stan says. 

“ _ Secret Santa _ ,” Bev says, a little more forcefully. “I have names in this hat. You will pick a name, and you will not tell  _ anyone _ who it is—or else.” She glares at everyone, and they all shrink a little bit.

They all pick a name, more than a little cowed by Bev, who just cheerfully waves them all off with a reminder that if they skip out on gift-giving she’ll quite literally disembowel them in front of their mothers’ houses.)

On Friday, Eddie wants to gather them all after school, right before Secret Santa.

“I think I’m gay,” Eddie says, to the surprise of no one.

“I’m bi,” Bill says, shrugging. He’s never told anyone, but he figures now is a good time as any to say so. 

“I’m gay,” Stan says, and meets Bill’s eye almost defiantly. Bill can hear Bev snickering in the background, and he almost lifts a hand to flip her off, but—Stan’s  _ gay _ , which is at least half as good as he’d hoped for. Richie and Eddie are arguing, distantly, but he can’t rip his gaze away from Stan, who really just looks beautiful lit up by the sun like that, and couldn’t Bill just lurch forward and kiss him, really?

He’s mulling it over in his head when Richie takes Eddie and shoves him into Bill, who instantly opens his arms to receive him.

“I know,” Eddie grumbles. “I was dumb, can we all stop now?”

“Sure,” Bev says. “Bill?”

“My house awaits,” Bill says, somewhat sarcastically, because there was a moment, and Richie Tozier murdered it, as he often does with moments.

On the walk over to his house, Bill talks to Mike about a comic book he’s been reading, his mind not really on the conversation. Mike says something about an artist they both like and the only thing Bill can think is  _ did you know Stan wasn’t straight? Did everyone know? _ When Ben enters the conversation—something about a superhero—Bill makes an excuse to leave it, saying he needs to find his keys. He does find his keys—and almost drops them on the way up the stoop. With Richie snickering behind him, his cheeks burning, he unlocks the door with great fanfare and shoves it open. Bev shakes a jar of moonshine in his face as she passes, and he only rolls his eyes. 

There’s a fire already burning in the fireplace (thanks, Mom) and the tree glitters in the corner. Bill sits on the chair, his Secret Santa gift on his lap. It’s simply addressed “To Bill.” There’s no mention of the deliverer, but the package is meticulously wrapped, each piece of tape perfectly placed. He rips it open, not bothering with gentleness, but inside the wrapping paper is a fine, embossed box containing a fountain pen.

It’s a beautiful pen, all gilt and chrome and shiny, black enamel. There’s an engraving on the side, and Bill lifts it out of the box with two fingers so he can see it better, holding it with the very tips of his fingers.  _ Give ‘em all nightmares for me _ . 

He nearly drops the pen in his surprise. Although not everyone in the room has been ruled out yet, there’s only one person who could’ve given this to him.

From across the room, Stan’s smile is small, but directed at Bill.

* * *

Bill thinks he might ask Stan to prom. He almost does. After school, he walks up to Stan in the hallway. Stan smiles, which is reassuring.

“Bill Denbrough, as I live and breathe,” he says. 

“A-At your service,” Bill says. “N-Not that I’m p-p-prov-providing any services,” he says quickly. “Unless y-you want me to.” He laughs awkwardly, forcing the sound out. “J-Just k-k-kidding. No services.”

“That’s a shame,” Stan says. Bill nearly chokes at this. Stan looks like he’s hiding a smile. “What’s up?”

“N-Not m-m-much,” Bill says. “I j-j-just… wanted to ch-chat–you know, ab-b-bout st-t-t-tuff. And things.  St-Stuff and things. Uh.”

“We didn’t have any physics homework, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Stan says. 

“Yes,” Bill latches onto this excuse with gratitude. “Th-That is exact-t-ly why I wanted t-to talk to you. The physics homework.”

“The physics homework we didn’t have,” Stan corrects. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Bill says, his tongue loosening now he’s not so nervous. “Bev and Ben are making out, Richie and Eddie are smoking, and Mike is with his girl, so it’s just us today.”

“That’s alright,” Stan says. “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out alone, hasn’t it?”

“A… a little, yeah,” Bill says.

He knows he’ll probably never end up asking Stan to prom, which is for the best, given the town they live in. He thinks Stan knows what he was trying to ask, because Stan just looks at him for a second.

“What is it?” Bill asks.

“Nothing,” Stan says. He’s still looking at Bill in that strange way he does sometimes, his eyes soft and mouth relaxed. “Let’s just go.”

They walk. Bill’s not entirely sure where they’re walking to, he just knows they’ve been walking. Their hands brush. Bill could move his hand just a little bit and entwine Stan’s fingers with his. He doesn’t. He doesn’t have to. Stan does it first. Bill hopes his hands aren’t too sweaty and that Stan can’t tell how fast his heart is beating.

His stomach feels like it might splinter off if it spins any more. He tightens his grip on Stan’s hand, just a little bit. 

They get to the forest just off the bank of the Kenduskeag. Stan lets go of Bill’s hand to take a seat on a rock, and looks at Bill expectantly. 

“I have to… uh, nature calls,” Bill says, and Stan just waves a hand, his eyes already fixed on the surface of the river.

Bill stumbles into the woods a little ways away and rests a hand against a tree. He’s being stupid, he knows. There is a word for what he’s doing. He’s being a coward. He’s being a wuss. He’s… “He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts,” he mutters. “He thrusts his fists against the p-p-p…”

He doesn’t even notice Stan is behind him until he is, one hand curling over Bill’s shoulder.

“Sh-Shit,” Bill says. “How long have you b-b-been there?”

“Long enough to know you’re freaking out over something major,” Stan says. “And I’m here to tell you you’re an idiot.”

“How d-does that figure,” Bill says, and Stan leans in and kisses him. His lips are warm, and just as soft as Bill’d always thought they’d be.

“You’re stupid,” Stan mutters when he pulls away, hand on the back of Bill’s neck, but his eyes are soft.

“Maybe,” Bill says, surprising himself when he doesn’t stutter at all. “Maybe just a little.”


End file.
